“What’s wrong with your friend?” For 5 sentence game
CW: Some frank references to dubcon/noncon, also Juliet is fucking calculated and I love her
Beringer's masterlist is here
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"What's wrong with your friend?"
"What?" Juliet looks over her shoulder, blinking a few times, trying to figure out who in the hell Gina could possibly be talking about. There's at least a dozen people eating dinner in here already, and the other two dozen or so will come in on their own, stragglers fighting the wind cutting their cheeks and freezing their lungs.
"Who... who do you mean, Gina?"
She doesn't exactly have a lot of friends. She holds her bowl out while Gina ladles the soup into it.
It's been bubbling on the stove all day in a giant pot and smells like sheer heaven, slow-cooked pork with hominy and tomatillos and a pile of cilantro as big as her head waiting for everyone to decide what they want. Juliet looks down at her steaming bowl and adds cilantro, radishes, cabbage strips, a dollop of sour cream. The others add different things, and she thinks about how when she worked, she mostly just ate shit from the convenience store. Sometimes she was lucky enough to snag a tamale from the tamale cart.
Sometimes, her clients took her out to fancy dinner at restaurants that had four-month waits for reservations, but none of that food ever tasted as good as the tamale straight from a big plastic bucket, wrapped in corn husk, making her fingers damp and slick with lard and condensation, burning her tongue. Sometimes Romeo was with her and would buy her one with money he got washing dishes at restaurants, paid in cash with no question asked. He used to make more selling his mouth and hands, but he's got too many scars for that, now, he said. People want Romantics to look young and flirty and like innocence defiled, and it's hard to look innocent when half your face is a twisted line pulling your mouth to one side.
Still, he made life work.
She hopes, sometimes, that he's still out there, still making it work. But life expectancies for runaway Romantics aren't more than a couple of years, and he'd already outlived his by the time she met him.
She'd love to see him one more time, though. Those tamales, sitting on the curb with Romeo giggling over them with fruity jamaica soda fizzing up her nose, those were the greatest things she ever ate, the best times she had. Those tamales, and Romeo's good-natured cursing, tasted like home, like laughter and Christmas, in ways she isn't allowed to remember.
The posole that Gina makes, though, that brings memories, too. Headaches, sure, but lately she can get through the headaches, more and more.
Gina snorts. "Him," She says, gesturing with her ladle. Broth shimmery with pork fat drips off of it, unnoticed. She has tendrils of dark curls stuck to her forehead and cheeks and the back of her neck, where her heavy hair is swept up in something both like and unlike a bun. "That one. He's with you all the time lately."
Oh. Beringer.
Juliet shrugs. "He's not really my friend. He's the one that came in with the handler out in the shed. I've been helping him figure stuff out here. Might as well be useful before Brock notices I don't do shit around here."
"Brock's a softie, he won't make you do anything you don't want to do." Gina leans around Juliet to look more closely at Beringer. "Huh. Ophie said he was a daycare pet."
"He was, I think."
"Really? But he's..."
"Handsome?"
Gina smiles, slightly shamefaced. "Well... I just. He looks more like one of your kind, is all I'm saying."
Juliet snorts. "My kind. Right. The whores, you mean. The giant fucking sluts."
Gina turns bright red. "I didn't say that!"
"Thought it, though. Anyway, we're all good-looking, remember? It's part of the draw of the whole damn system. Get a pretty person to do whatever degrading shit you dream about with a smile on their face and a song in their heart." Juliet laughs without humor. Outside, the wind whirls snow past the windows. It stopped actually snowing a while back, but it's dry stuff, easily lifted by the breeze that whistles past the corners of every house. It races itself over the salted, plowed roads like horses hellbent on making it to the horizon.
"Well. Not everyone has to... you know." Gina's smile fades, and she won't meet Juliet's eyes as she says it.
Juliet lifts her chin. It's not her fucking fault, she reminds herself, that she only knows one way to get by. It's not her fault, she was made that way, and you can't blame someone for doing what they know. "Trust me. You might not have had to fuck them, but you still had to act like less than a person, and that's a kind of fucking, too."
Gina swallows, hard. Silence draws out, and then Juliet stomps away, over to the table where Beringer sits. The daycare pet watches the window, lost in his own mind, a cup of coffee long since gone cold in front of him.
"When's the last time you ate, huh?" Juliet sits her tray down a little too loudly, watching him jump in surprise. There are scars on him, too - she can see it on his hands, creeping up the side of his neck, just barely visible. He has more under his shirt, like cobwebs of dead skin.
"Wh-... oh, hi." His smile is brief, but gentle. She could see how he worked well with kids. There's no malice, in a smile like that. No aggression like the men at bars she'd pick up, no desire or demand like the more expensive clients who scheduled in advance. It's just a soft smile, easy as an older brother waking up for church on a Sunday morning so your mother won't know you slept in.
The little girl that's usually glued to his side is off in the play area in the big building where everyone eats, giggling through tag with another girl. One of the Domestics had come with a child in tow, too, unable to bear the thought of losing her. No one has asked if the child is hers.
Juliet wonders if she was a happy kid, when she was that age.
She'll never know.
"Hi doesn't answer my question, Beringer."
"Oh... uh. I don't know." He goes back to watching the window, and she sighs.
"He's not coming out of that shack any faster because of you making goo-goo eyes, you know."
"I know." Beringer leans forward, resting on his elbow, hand in his hair and palm against his forehead. "Rye says he's got a cough starting up. If helping me escape is what gets him killed-"
"Then it's exactly what he fucking deserves."
Beringer looks up, startled, at the flat, sharp edge of her voice. She watches his adam's apple bob as he swallows, sees the slight flare of whites around his eyes. "... Juliet. I told you, he didn't want to do it anymore-"
"Yeah, I hate to let you in on this, but that doesn't matter. Not even a little bit." She smiles to cut the sting in her words, but it doesn't work. His own eyes narrow in response. "Look. Just. You're still in it, I can tell, and it makes sense since you're so new at being out. But he's a handler, Ber. He was a handler, he's still a handler. You don't stop being a handler once you sign their fucking contract. We all know that."
Beringer's jaw works, but he only looks away, back to the window. "He's..."
"What? Nice?" Juliet laughs, bitter as raw chocolate. "Oh, sure, no doubt. Nice to you, you were taking care of his precious baby girl. But I bet he beat the shit out of someone else as soon as he got downstairs to the training rooms, or had one with a mouth on his cock and told the poor trainee it's breakfast. Handlers aren't nice."
"... he isn't like that-"
"They're all like that. You think it was just Romantic handlers who came to my training room to have their fun?" She smiles, and it's a grimace. A snarl. "God, no. I had to spread my legs for every kind of handler you can imagine. At least the Romantic handlers were fucking honest about it."
Beringer stares at her. He has beautiful dark eyes. The kind you could fall into. She can see why the handler out in the shed followed him here, brought him. She'd have done anything for those eyes, too, once upon a time.
"Stop," he whispers. "He was never like that."
"Guarantee he fuckin' was."
"You don't know him."
"Neither do you. Handlers go through fucking months of training, Beringer. They only keep the ones they know will do the dirty work, the worst sons of bitches, the worst bastards, the worst people on earth. I probably sucked fifty handler cocks in training, or more, and you know what?"
He looks like he'll be sick, and some part of her feels good at seeing one of the lucky ones realize what it takes to keep existing when you've been what Juliet had to be to survive. "What?"
"The only ones I saw wearing wedding rings weren't wearing them anymore a few months later. They can't stay married because they don't give a fuck about anyone but themselves."
"His wife-... Marc's wife hated what he did for work, she left-"
"She left? Lucky woman. You should be that smart. Take the kid, go to Canada, and let the handler out there rot. He deserves it. He let plenty of us rot, didn't he? That great good man out there? Looked the other way, probably did plenty of shit he isn't telling you about. While his little girl learned her ABCs upstairs, he taught one of us how to clean grout knowing they'd get shocked half to death if they ever paused for a single. damn. second."
Beringer's eyes go back to the little girl. She's stopped playing. She's watching a show about a cartoon dog, now, standing with a stuffed tiger crooked in her arm. "I-I don't-... know. I haven't really asked him... if he..."
"I know." She sighs, trying to soften her voice, and reaches out to lay a hand on his arm. "I'm sorry. I'm being really rude about this, but I swear, it's because I'm worried. If you let him take you to Canada, he'll just want to keep you, to use you. They just have people they want to use. He's using you, Ber."
"He's not." Beringer shakes his head, running his hand over his mouth. He's pale, haunted around the eyes. "He's not. He wouldn't have thought of it on his own. I... I talked to him for months, let him think I'd kiss him, made friends... flirted... did the things I saw them do on TV. I used him."
"Now you don't need him any longer." Juliet nudges his foot under the table with his own, until he looks back at her and she can give him her best wry smile. It's as much a performance as the flirty little grins she'd been so good at once upon a time. "So let him go. Thanks for all the fish, thanks for your baby girl, now go to hell."
"... Rye, he was Rye's handler. Rye said he was always so nice-"
"Right, sure. Bet he was. Then, once Rye knew how to count pills and give baths to old ladies and smile his face off, he sent him on to a house where he got the shit beat out of him by his owner's daughter over and over and over again until he ended up in the clinic four times in a year. Even when he's nice, he's not nice."
Beringer is silent for a long, long time. "What do I tell Mallie when she asks where her daddy is, then, huh? What do I tell her?"
"Tell her he died." Juliet shrugs. "He will anyway, if you're not here to vouch for him any longer. Tell her whatever the hell you want. She's not even old enough to remember you lied. She'll never know. She'll call you daddy after a few months, dad in a few years. You'll be the only father she ever knows. You can watch her grow up, knowing that he can't. Erase him from everyone who mattered to him. Just like they do to us. Take his life and make it serve your needs, what you want, leave him for dead when you're done, and once he's gone through all of it and died after, he'll have paid for everything he ever did to the rest of us who weren't you."
Beringer's breath catches. She thrills, just a little, whenever she lets a man see inside her mind and he looks that frightened afterward. She's never hurt a man in her life - but she's frightened a few, and it's always felt so good.
Romeo was never scared of her, though. He would just find some way to twist her idea and make it even more terrifying. They laughed all the time about the things they could come up with to have their revenge.
"Christ Almighty," He whispers. She's not even sure he knows he said it.
She eats her soup, delighting in the heat and lime and salt and spice, in silence until she's done. She stands to take her dishes back over to the pile of them next to sink, deciding she'll make sure she washes for a half an hour or so to help earn her keep, and pauses.
He's staring out the window again.
"You don't owe him anything." She makes her voice as calm and as gentle as she can. "Understand?"
He doesn't look at her, or answer, but she knows he's thinking about what she said.
Outside, the snow blown by the wind makes sure you can't even see the shack where that handler is being held. Only the fence, and the darkness beyond.
H. Kupi (development plan chief) + HCH. Weilenmann (mortuary and service building) + H. Herter (chapel); photography by SBZ: Guggenbühl; Wolf-Bender; Beringer)
Una a tu salud Bro @lmcuencam . Beringer & Bros. #vino #beringer&bros #california #wine (en House.mx) https://www.instagram.com/p/B5oQVG6nKPD/?igshid=1qksh9ci9kstl
